


…or my name isn’t Orville Redenbacher

by Dustbunnygirl



Series: Tales of the Bard - Reggie's Story [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-01
Updated: 2007-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-14 09:53:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8008888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: …or my name isn’t Orville Redenbacher, 8 of 10<br/>Prompt:Movie, "the 10s" challenge.<br/>Fandom: n/a<br/>Pairing: Dahlia/Reggie<br/>Rating: PG, maybe<br/>Word count: 2,255<br/>Warnings: none<br/>Disclaimer: These characters are entirely owned by moi and come from my still untitled, unpublished, mostly second drafted Monster Book of the Unholy. They do not play well with others. The only person to blame for them is, unfortunately, me. However, blame legal_padawan for the fact this story was written at all, as she twisted my arm into this challenge of hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	…or my name isn’t Orville Redenbacher

It looked so easy when they did it. A slosh of oil measured by eye that popped when it hit the bottom of the hot pan, a handful of kernels tossed in when the oil reached optimum heat, a shimmy and a shake that made them hop and dance over hot iron. Reggie listened to every pop and crackle and zing, unseduced by the mambo-like beat, waiting for the moment when silence crept in. It was crucial, that three second delay; he’d heard Eva say as much more than once while poised over a jumping pan. Wait too long and disaster would strike. Wait too long, be too concerned about the amount of unpopped kernels left at the bottom of the pan, and you were doomed. “Impatience and greed are the enemies of popcorn perfection,” she said, though usually only when there was no one around but him or the dustballs to hear it. 

He was contemplating those words while counting seconds with the timer on the back of the stove when the first whiff of charred corn reached his nose. 

“No, no, no! That was nowhere near three seconds of pause!” Reggie yanked the pan from the stove and dumped its smoking contents into the bowl waiting on the counter. Crisp black edges marred the top layer of popped corn. As the smoke wafted up it filled the air with the acrid scent of destruction and failure. He imagined neighbors smelling the smoke and calling the fire department out of fear the building was about to go up in flames. When the firemen arrived, they would just find him standing over the stove, crying into his catastrophe and shake their heads in pity. “Poor schmoe,” they’d say as they clomped back down the stairs. “Gotta feel sorry for a guy like that.”

As he picked at the layer of black on the top of the bowl, trying to salvage as much as he could, he tried to identify the flaw in his plan. He’d followed the oil and kernel steps precisely. The fault had to lie with his shaking technique. Maybe his rhythm was off just a fraction of a beat when he started tossing the slathered kernels back and forth over the stove. There were no complicated steps to the dance when he watched the others perform it, no intricate figure eight patterns in the flicks of their wrists, but perhaps from his shortened vantage point at the time there was some subtle nuance he missed. Maybe it was simply anatomical; years spent crawling the floor on all fours had allowed the muscle responsible for this operation to atrophy, leaving him incapable of the task. 

How cruel of Fate to hobble him so when all he wanted was to fix a bowl of popcorn?

Something tapped Reggie’s shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He turned and found Dahlia standing behind him. “Hey, what’s the hold up?” she asked, hands shoved into the back pockets of a tattered pair of jeans. Sometime between laundry day and that morning she had reclaimed one of the t-shirts she and Guy had bought for him – an olive drab number with the G.I. Joe logo across the chest – and tore two inches from the bottom hem. His eyes were briefly drawn to the sliver of skin left exposed in the process, then to the logo further up and how strategically situated it suddenly was, then looked away before she could catch him staring. “Dying of hunger out here.”

“A few minor logistical difficulties,” Reggie said as he gestured back at the bowl and it’s partially charred contents. “I’ve decided it’s Cajun popcorn. They like to blacken things, don’t they?”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, peeking into the bowl. “Not your fault. That pan burns everything. Cursed, I think.”

His eyebrow cocked and the left corner of his mouth quirked. “Cursed pan?”

“Hey, it could happen.” She reached for the bowl with one hand, for his wrist with the other, and gave his arm a tug. “It’s fine. C’mon, the movie’s going to start any second.”

“It’s on DVD, Dahlia. All you have to do is push a button.”

“Exactly. And I’m going to push that button any second now. So come on.”

Reggie bit back the half-formed comment on the tip of his tongue, something about impatient fae and their cast iron stomachs (only half impatient or cast iron, in Dahlia’s case, but still obviously enough to earn the generalization in his book), and let himself be dragged into the living room. When Dahlia flopped onto the couch with the bowl in her lap Reggie took up a spot on the floor in front of her. True to her word, it was only a few seconds later that the opening credits began to roll. 

“I give you ‘The Usual Suspects’,” she said, dropping the remote at her side. “Be prepared to be ooohed and ahhhed.”

Reggie shifted on the floor, compensating for a tail he kept forgetting wasn’t there anymore. It was a comfortable and accustomed place for him, at his mistress’ feet, and he took it up gladly. Things had been awkward and tense for weeks, since the dreaded Ear Piercing Incident. Gone were the unguarded moments, when Reggie would suddenly find a head on his shoulder or the full weight of a tired half-fae leaned into his side. Something had changed and he was baffled by all attempts to figure out what or how to fix it. It had been easy before to get back into her good graces. Sad eyes and the forlorn droop of his tail used to convey without words his abject remorse. She was powerless against a cold nose nudging her chin or a furry head slipping under her hand. But none of those familiar tactics worked any longer. He could hardly drape around her neck anymore and the thought of curling up in her lap suddenly inspired thoughts that left him awkward and tense for other reasons.

He felt the cushions behind him dip forward with the shift of Dahlia’s weight. A shiver ran straight up the back of his neck when her fingers brushed it as they gathered up a handful of his hair. It was almost a shock his voice remained level when he said, “Checking for fleas?”

“Idle hands,” she said as she began separating the lock of hair into three sections. “You know I can’t sit still.”

“Acquainted with the knowledge better than most.” He chuckled, leaning forward to bring the section of hair taut and nearly tug it from her hands. She tugged back, hard, in response. “Ow, you brute. It’s a bit too soon for anyone to be plucking me bal-“

Dahlia gave another tug of his hair. “Shhhh. No talking through the movie.”

“Right, right. No talking through the movie.”

“Barring questions related to plot.”

“Barring questions related to plot. Got it.”

Reggie fell silent, his attention split between the explosions of gunfire on the screen and the rhythmic weaving of his hair. Despite the former, the latter nearly relaxed him right to sleep. He must have nodded off – he thought he only blinked, but several minutes had passed when he opened his eyes again. He gave up trying to follow the plot at that point. He’d need a flow chart and a PhD to get caught up. 

Dahlia’s voice shoved the silence aside then, breaking the lazy spell of her braiding.

“Your hair is so thick,” she said, quietly, almost to herself.

“And that’s relevant to the plot in what way exactly?” His laugh was low and sleepy, despite the conversation’s intrusion on his nap.

Dahlia tugged on a braid in response. “About as relevant as your snoring a minute ago.” 

“Sorry. I’m sure it’s a wonderful movie, but I’ve got the attention span of-“

“A ferret on speed?”

“Funny.”

“I thought so.” Reggie couldn’t see her smile, but heard it in the lilt of her voice. It was like music to his ears. “I can sum the movie up for you in two sentences, if you want. One, if I’m really ambitious.”

“Sure,” he said, stretching his legs out between the couch and the t.v. and leaning back into the cushions. “I’m lost anyway.”

“Well, see, Kevin Spacey’s really the bad guy, this Kaiser Soze dude, and it’s all an elaborate plan to do…well, something. I’m never really clear on the what other than it’s general bad-guyness and probably involves acquiring money, guns, or getting rid of the competition.” She shrugged. Reggie felt it as a twitch-tug on his hair. “It’s a thinking movie. Eva kind of thing. My kind of movie involves lots of pink and animated animals that talk.”

Reggie turned his head, dislodging the minute section of hair Dahlia was working on. The braids that were already tightly woven beat against his face as he turned. 

“Why do you do that?” 

“Do what?”

“Make yourself out to be less than you are. No offense to Miss Morris or her uber-brain but you’re hardly intellectually deficient yourself. I’d guess, and rightly so I imagine, that she would agree as well.”

“She’s the Velma. Only room for one Velma per gang. Those are the rules of the Scooby-verse.” Having ignored the popcorn thus far, Dahlia shoved her hand in the bowl now and began picking popped kernels out and popping them into her mouth one at a time. “Besides, the red hair makes me a natural for Daphne.”

Reggie sighed. He leaned his head back until it hit the lip of the bowl and could go no further without tipping it. “I just wish you could see how smart you really are. You’ve never given yourself enough credit, and I don’t understand why. Honestly, Dahlia, if I wasn’t so fond of…” He looked up and caught the shock that registered clearly on her face. Then he rewound the words he’d just said, looking for what could have inspired it. Smart…credit…fond…

Oh balls…

“Fond?” she asked, when the shock wore off enough she could speak. “You said fond.”

He sighed again. This time his head fell forward and he tried to hide behind the collection of loose hair and braids that fell with him. “I said fond,” he muttered from beneath it all, two steps from banging his head against his knees. If only they were made of steel and could do optimum damage to his worthless brain.

“But what about…" He heard Dahlia crunch through another mouthful of popcorn, as if using the time to think how best to formulate the rest of that sentence. "You know, what's her name. With the excessive boobage and no shame?"

Reggie raised his head and turned the look of absolute disbelief on the redhead behind him. "The girl from the shop? Is that what this has been about the whole time? All the moping and the silent treatment?"

"Maybe."

"This whole time, you've been jealous of some piercing shop tart that gets her jollies making men scream like little girls?"

Dahlia poked at the ragged hole in her jeans with a buttery finger, looking anywhere but at him. "Maybe."

"Can I ask why?

"Men seem to like excessive boobage and no shame. Especially when they come in the same package." She shrugged, still examining the tear in the denim. Reggie smiled and reached for the probing hand and pulled it gently away. 

"Some men have more refined tastes," he said, before pressing a soft brush of lips and mustache to Dahlia's knuckles. She looked up, straight into his eyes and their steady stare as they peeked out from beneath his lashes. His thumb brushed the just-kissed spot and she blushed.

“Oh.” Reggie's smile widened. That’s when he noticed an interesting coincidence. It seemed the more he smiled, the redder Dahlia's cheeks got. The redder her cheeks turned, the more he wanted to smile. And the longer his lips hovered over her hand, the more he wanted to trail kisses further up that hand, then that arm, across her collar bone, up her neck, and then… How red would she turn if he moved that kiss to her butter coated lips? Finally, he released her hand and turned back to the television. It saved her head from turning neon and kept his intentions under check. For a second, as he watched her cheeks burn, he let himself wonder what it would take to really turn them scarlet. 

Silence stretched on, several moments where neither of them really watched the movie rolling on before them and no one tried to speak. Then Dahlia leaned forward, chin hovering an inch over his shoulder.

"Smokey and the Bandit?"

Reggie sighed, a sound full of relief. "You read my mind."

Dahlia hopped up, climbing across the couch cushions and over the arm with the popcorn bowl firmly in hand. “Great. You switch out the DVD, I’ll go dump this out and try to make something edible.”

“I thought you said it was fine!”

She backed away from the couch toward the kitchen, the wicked spark in her eyes belying the innocence of her smile. “It is fine,” she said, looking over her shoulder to avoid running into the counter. “For charcoal.”

Reggie sprung up from the floor and took off in pursuit of his redheaded tormentor, half-finished braids slapping at his shoulders. Dahlia squeaked, dropping the bowl and spilling its contents as she ran for the shelter of the kitchen.

The movie played on, forgotten.


End file.
